


my heart lies in your bones

by fellstars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddles, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Love Confessions, Mentioned Miklan (Fire Emblem), Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Trans Sylvain Jose Gautier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellstars/pseuds/fellstars
Summary: Like most nightmares, this one starts out good.-Miklan haunts Sylvain's dreams. Fortunately, Bernadetta knows what to do.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	my heart lies in your bones

**Author's Note:**

> hi welcome to penny's number 1 comfort ship i hope you enjoy your stay!!!! this is dedicated to mio who is ceo of sydetta with me i love u mio!!!
> 
> not only do i spread the syldetta agenda but also the trans sylvain agenda <3 also my bernadetta is nonbinary and uses she/they but it's not mentioned so i didn't tag it BUT KNOW NONE OF MY INTERPRETATIONS OF ANY OF MY FAVOURITE FE3H CHARACTERS ARE EVER CISHET!!!! 
> 
> anyway i have the evils (mental illness) and i really needed some hurt/comfort especially in between my angsty wips and i think u all do too we live in a pandemic so please enjoy and know things will be okay again
> 
> stay safe during these uncertain times <3
> 
> ps can we please have more hurt/comfort where sylvain is the one being comforted thank u
> 
> title from "painting roses" by dresses

Like most nightmares, this one starts out good.

It’s his birthday, which really shouldn’t make sense considering it’d come and gone months ago, but it’s his birthday, fine, everybody’s singing. Everybody’s singing, and Sylvain lets them, because it’s nice to be sung to. Mercedes has baked cake with Ashe, Annette and Dedue, and Felix is rolling his eyes as if he’s really put off by the cheer the day brings—shocker, his birthday brings _cheer_ of all things—and Hilda’s voice is a little shrill, and Claude is whooping like a madman, and Dimitri is filming (his phone is upside down, and no one corrects him, least of all Felix), and Bernadetta—Bernadetta’s the one holding the cake and walking closer. The flames on the candles dance as she makes her way over. The cake has a lot of whipped cream. Sylvain is pleased.

They’re all singing still when Sylvain—and Sylvain alone—realises the door of his apartment has creaked open. The room was already dark with how one of them flipped the lights off for dramatic effect, but somehow it’s darker now, and no one seems to realise it but him. Shapes crawl out from the crack between the door and its frame, and they swirl, except they’re not shapes—just _a_ shape. A figure. A monster. A man.

Miklan wears both his prison uniform and that smile.

The singing hasn’t ceased, if anything it’s louder, right in Sylvain’s ears even when there’s a perfectly normal distance between him and his friends standing around him as he sits on the ottoman by the coffee table. No one realises his brother blends in like a shadow in the celebration, nor the jarring and booming correction he provides over his friends’ chorus of _Sylvain,_ because he’s been told time and time again, he’s not Sylvain.

Sylvain feels his throat grow tight, like his mirth has been crafted into a noose and slipped over his head. Like it’s transformed into his brother’s hands even though his brother’s hands are at his sides as he stands between Dimitri and Felix, watching, interjecting, jeering.

The candles feel like they’re right next to his face, and like his whole person is actually wax, because the heat of it makes it feel as though he’s melting, painfully so, his tears dripping like flame-kissed wax that trickles thickly down his cheeks. He chokes, but his brother’s hands don’t relent; they tighten.

His friends no longer smile with easy happiness, but with smirks identical to Miklan’s. They’re copies of him now, and they each pluck a candle from the cake.

His is the wax, and he swallows it, burns with it. The audience calls for encore, and when Sylvain tries to reach out for whatever familiarity remains in his friends’ features, they melt, too, until it’s just them.

Just Sylvain, Miklan’s hands wrapped around his softening neck, and Miklan himself.

He laughs a name Sylvain refuses to answer to, and then his hands _squeeze,_ and like warmed candles, Sylvain’s flesh melds under the clench of Miklan’s fists.

The bedside table has its lamp lit, and the light in the room is terrifyingly alike to the scene he’s resurfaced from, except now hands that hold him aren’t large and bloodstained, nor his brother’s.

“Sylvain,” Bernadetta’s voice is gentle, and her hair is sticking up at odd angles, or so he processes before his eyes water and blur with tears, “Sylvain, it’s okay! You’re safe. You’re here.”

Here. Sylvain is here. But where is Miklan?

Sylvain begins to spiral, or he has been from the moment he woke up but he’s just realising it. He whimpers pathetically, he’s sure, but Bernadetta doesn’t seem to mind, hushes him soothingly instead. Why is Bernadetta here?

“I was here to stay the night; we had takeaway and watched _Into The Spider-Verse_ , and afterwards we got ready for bed. Oh! And I read a part of my latest chapter to you, and we bounced ideas off of each other for a bit. We were talking before you fell asleep, and we, um, we cuddled...” she recalls with a light flush of her cheeks, voice unwavering nor judging. She should be judging. This is shameful. “Sylvain, can you squeeze my hands? Let me know you can hear me?”

He swallows and tries, gulping for air.

“Okay! That’s alright! Listen to me, let’s do some breaths. Follow my lead, okay? I’ve got you,” she murmurs softly and squeezes his hands instead of him squeezing hers. He registers nodding faintly, and he strains to hear Bernadetta’s instructions, to mimic her own breathing, and he hiccups and sniffles in between each one he manages.

The light seems brighter, actually, compared to the dream.

“That’s it,” Bernadetta praises. “You’re doing great! Okay? Can you try squeezing my hands now, or should we breathe together for a little while longer?”

He shuts his eyes tightly and presses Bernadetta’s hands weakly.

“There we go! That’s good! Let’s breathe for another minute longer just to make sure, okay? One, two, three, four… Focus on my voice and hold! Five, six, seven, eight…”

He feels the panic subdue in waves, and he can see an end to the tears he blinks out. Bernadetta’s face, he realises as his vision focuses, is kind if a little concerned, and her voice anchors him.

“How’s that?” She rubs semicircles onto his knuckles with her thumbs.

His voice is hoarse when he says, “Better.” Bernadetta searches for a fib. There isn’t one to find, not really. “Still like shit, but—but better.”

She nods slowly, content. “That’s good. I’m glad. Do you want me to get some water?”

The thought of being alone, even for a short moment, makes his heart jump behind his ribcage, and his hold on Bernadetta’s hands tightens.

“Okay,” Bernadetta whispers. “I'll get some later.”

His nod is weak, and he slumps suddenly, his forehead resting against her shoulder. She lets him lean there.

“Can I hold you?” 

Again, he nods, and when Bernadetta’s fingers carefully relax against his, and her arms—shorter than his, of course—come to wrap around him loosely, pulling him closer. She smells like her berry hair shampoo. It’s stupidly grounding, Hell, it feels selfish.

They sit like that for a few long moments as Sylvain’s breathing evens out, and Bernadetta draws shapes into his back. She hums something softly, but he can’t focus enough on the actual sound to tell what it is, just concentrates on the little vibrations she makes.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Her voice is quiet still.

His lips twist. “Miklan.” He tries hard not to stumble over his name.

Bernadetta’s fingers tease the ends of his hair. It’s a little shaggy. He ought to get a cut soon.

“You’re safe,” Bernadetta promises. Maybe he’ll believe her in an hour or two. “You’re alright. I promise.”

“Okay,” Sylvain manages.

Bernadetta asks, “Can I play with your hair?”

“Okay,” Sylvain says again. “Avoid—Avoid my neck. Please.” His voice breaks a little at the last word, and he winces as he does. If Bernadetta notices, she says nothing about it.

“I will, I promise!” That, he can believe.

He feels her small fingers thread through his hair and the way her blunt nails scrape his skull a little. He leans into the touch, sighing. He feels warm—a comfortable sort of warm—and he tugs Bernadetta closer.

“‘M sorry for waking you.”

She traces a heart onto his back with one hand, small and a little lopsided, and continues to fiddle with his hair with the other. She traces a second heart, just as imperfect as the last. Then another. “I don’t mind. I’m glad I was here to help. Was it—Was I… _Did_ Bernie help…?” A thread of anxiety reveals itself in her tone.

“Yeah.” Sylvain burrows his face into her neck. Her hoodie smells more like him than it does like her, which is disappointing. “Thank you, Berna.”

Bernadetta hums again, soothing him still. “Do you… need me to do anything else?”

With a swallow, Sylvain asks of her, “Continue holding me?”

He feels her nod. “Won’t stop until you tell me to!”

He manages a smile.

The seconds pass by audibly with how her bedside table clock ticks. It helps Bernadetta sleep, and he doesn’t mind it. Helps him feel real. Each second is another second away from Miklan. That’s good. Sylvain begins to hug her back slowly when the ticks pass another hundred mark, and Bernadetta shifts minutely to help him feel more comfortable in the position. He hopes he’s not weighing her down, both in the physical and mental sense.

“Is this—okay?” he asks quietly, just to make sure.

It’s like she can read his thoughts, but really, when it comes to nights like these, they don’t think all too differently. “You’re not a burden, Sylvain,” she promises him, and he pulls her closer, as though startled by her words. “I want to be here. Okay? You’re here for me, and I’m here for you. I…” she trails off, suddenly unsure.

He feels anxiety gnaw harder at his gut. “Yeah?” he prompts in a whisper. She what? Does she regret this? Regret him? Many people have in the past, which is why he doesn’t sit, cracked open like this often if ever unless he’s alone. It wouldn’t surprise him; he’s too much. Everyone’s told him so, in one way or another. “Sorry,” he says almost immediately after.

“No! No, it’s okay, you don’t have to apologise for anything. I didn’t mean to hesitate, I just… didn’t know how I wanted to phrase this,” she tells him, which helps him relax again, but only a little bit. “I, um… I want to be here to help you feel safe, Sylvain. Even if it means just—just holding you until you fall asleep again—or not, it doesn’t matter to me. Even if it means reassuring you until, I don’t know, the sun comes up again. Even if it means we just lay in bed all day and I don’t do any writing, or I miss a class. Or! Or I miss a deadline! It—It doesn’t matter to me. I mean. No! No, I mean— _you_ matter to me—obviously—but, I meant, it doesn’t matter to me what I have to do or… sacrifice…? To make sure you’re okay. Okay? That’s too much isn’t it. You haven’t said anything. Sorry. I shouldn’t pile this up on you, I—”

He pulls back a bit, far enough to be able to look her in the eye but close enough to still have each other’s arms draped over the other’s shoulders. “Berna,” he breathes.

Bernadetta squeaks, “Yes?”

The kiss isn’t so much a kiss, but just… another way for them to sit closer. It’s a peck at most, chaste, and tired, and drained, but the intention is there, the silent _thank you_ that doesn’t sound genuine or good enough spoken aloud. Bernadetta makes a small noise at the back of her throat in surprise before she kisses back gently, not wanting to force Sylvain into too much. He’ll kiss her properly later, he promises, but this is nice for now. Slight, lazy presses of their lips. The anxiety prodding at his insides is still there, and being in Bernadetta’s arms like this won’t make any of it disappear any time soon, but it helps him feel warm, and for now that’s enough.

She draws apart. “Stop me if… if it’s too much, okay? Here,” she loosens one arm around him with caution before taking one of his to intertwine their fingers together, “squeeze my hand if you can’t speak? I’ll stop ASAP."

Once Sylvain hums in understanding, he watches her lean forward again. He feels her lips against his cheek, and it’s silly how he feels his face heat up immediately, like some blushing virgin which is _far_ from what Sylvain is. He thinks she’ll leave it at just that, and it’s nice, tame, but then she inches a little closer and kisses the bridge of his nose. His breath hitches and she pauses for a moment, but when he says nothing nor squeezes her hand, she carries on, dragging her lips to his other cheek. He feels her kiss there, too, where there’s faint indents from the creases of the pillow he was sleeping on. His left temple. Then his right. She puts her other arm back around him after she uses her spare hand to brush his fringe back so she can kiss him on the forehead (but not without having to sit up a little straighter, maybe even lifting herself off the mattress a little, he isn’t sure—and when did he close his eyes?). Her lips over his eyelids are especially featherlight, and she, again, stops when he draws a sharper breath at the contact before resuming again. His nose tip is kissed next, and—

“Oh,” she says gently. “Are you alright? Was it—Was it too much? Sylvain, I—”

Damn his tears, he’ll kiss her properly _now,_ because only she could be this fucking sweet for no good reason out of nowhere, and he swallows her concern to make her stop fretting. His fingers card through her hair and only mess it up further, which he adores, actually, gives her a cute disheveled look, and he feels her eyelashes brush against those same cheeks she had just kissed when she shuts her eyes and gives in. He kisses her in a way those cliché books describe, in a way that would make her groan if he openly described himself like a man starved of love, or some other stupid thing, because _clichés suck, Sylvain!_

Yeah, well, she’s his cliché, and she doesn’t suck one bit, she’s everything to him, and clichés only suck if they’re badly done, so if anything this is just his personal mission to _not mess up_ like he has all his life.

He _does_ kiss her like a man starved of love, like a man possessed, like he’s been lost in the desert with not one drop of water for days, and she might very well be the hallucination he sees before his final descent, but to _hell_ with it! To hell with all of it! He’s in— 

Yeah. Fuck it. He’s in love with her.

He loves her, Sylvain loves Bernadetta; his seatmate in his creative writing seminar; Bernadetta. One of his bestest, closest friends; Bernadetta. The same girl he out-scammed a claw machine for to get a bear plushie for; Bernadetta. His favourite published-author-to-be; Bernadetta. His _girlfriend,_ his first _true love,_ his _only_ (please, Sothis, he wants only her) true love; Bernadetta.

His throat feels too raw to say those three words let alone whatever flowery, poetic bullshit he’s obsessed with, so he just keeps kissing her, and she kisses back, hands avoiding his neck still even though it’s where she usually rests her arms when they kiss like this.

He eases her down so her back is on the bed, kissing her still, and she’s breathless under him, and— _fuck,_ she’s smiling against his lips. It makes him breathe a small laugh before he kisses her some more, and she continues to trace those wonky hearts on his back, stuttering every now and then in their track when he kisses her a little harder. He loves her he loves her he loves her he loves her he

can hardly even remember much of the nightmare, actually, feels a little calmer, more smitten, dizzy, but good, and

“Sylvain,” she says against his lips. He steals another kiss and it makes her _giggle._ “Sylvain,” she says again, and he pulls back but they’re hardly a breadth apart from another kiss.

“Hi,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth.

She giggles again. “Hi,” she parrots. “Are you okay? You were crying.”

Sylvain breathes in through his nose, shuts his eyes, and then exhales out of the mouth. “I’m getting there. Just—” His face breaks into a stupid smile, and he shakes his head, wiping a hand down his face. “Berna, you’re everything.”

“I’m—?”

Usually it’s a chorus of _you’re too good to me_ or _I don’t deserve you_ and _why don’t you leave while you still can,_ but tonight?

“Really,” he says, taking hold of her hands and helping her sit up again. “I feel—feel less stupid for being like this. Less insane or—or messed up, whatever, because you just… you treat me like I’m _normal._ You’re patient, and— _Goddess_ knows how hard it is to be patient with me of all people, and…”

He wants to say it, but he worries that if he will, she’ll mistake it for something out of obligation.

Loving Bernadetta isn’t an obligation, it’s—

Something good. _Really_ good. His poetry’s run out, and so has a lot of his energy.

“I’m… glad you want to help me feel safe. And I want to help _you_ feel safe, too. If you’ll let—If. You let me. Uh.” Okay, pull back, this sounds like a fucking marriage proposal.

She’s teary when she nods, and she plants another kiss at his cheek. “I’d really, really, _really_ like that, Sylvain. But only if I can keep helping you feel safe.”

He smiles again, soft and tired, but absolutely genuine. “Won’t say no to that.”

They kiss again, gravitating towards each other, and their nose bump a little which makes the both of them laugh. He hopes she can taste it on his lips, the _I love you._ He certainly feels the weight of something off of hers, but it’s not overbearing. It’s comforting.

“Do you want to watch _Anastasia_ _?”_ Bernadetta offers into the silence a few moments later when they just sit in each other’s arms again. “Until you fall asleep? Or until the sun comes up. I’m not picky.”

Sylvain hums. “Can I have some bergamot? And painkillers. I think I have a headache coming on.”

“Do you want to come with me or can you sit alone for a few minutes?”

He thinks for a moment. “I’ll come.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Sylvain?”

“Yes, Bernie-bear?”

She makes an embarrassed noise and hides her face in his chest. “Don’t—” she attempts, but falls short. The pet name catches her off guard each time. He loves it. He loves _her._ “We, um. We have to get up if you wanna, uh, get stuff.”

At this, Sylvain whines, wrapping his arms around her tighter.

“Syl _vain…”_

He sighs massively. “Fine,” he relents and relaxes his hold, but not before kissing the top of her head.

He hears her socked feet land soundly onto the wooden floor of his bedroom, and he slides out from under the covers to join her. She takes his hand—she’s a lot better at initiating affection now, and he’s happy to see it—and leads him to the door, fumbling for the light in the hallway before fully stepping out (they’re both afraid of the dark). Artificial, yellow lighting floods the room, and they shuffle to the kitchen. Bernadetta gestures for him to sit at the island in the centre, but not without squeezing his hand again.

“Let me help,” he says, but Bernadetta shakes her head firmly. The cowlicks in her hair waver from the intensity of it.

“Let me take care of you,” she returns, and—it’s a big request to ask of him, the well-renowned giver and carer.

He sits, nods mutely, because… because he… _does_ want to be taken care of. It might be nice, and he likes doing it for other people and… Maybe, just maybe, he deserves it.

Maybe. Big, big maybe.

Sylvain watches Bernadetta grab the kettle and fill it with water from the filter before flipping it on. It’s one of the quieter kettles, and the bubbling sound is nice background noise and it works well with Bernadetta’s hums as she pads about the kitchen, first to fetch the sugar and next to search for their mugs. They used to be on a higher shelf before Sylvain very quickly realised Bernadetta couldn’t reach them, so he put them on the shelf beneath it. She checks it now, and her humming stops to make way for a confused huff.

“The windowsill,” Sylvain helps out, watching her like he's hypnotised.

She turns, and indeed there they are; his fox mug beside her bear one, both with the ceramic shaped like ears at one side of their rims. A three month anniversary gift for each other—somehow they had the same idea among other things. Bernadetta had bounced around in excitement when she had unwrapped his first gift for her (a sight which physically pained him, because no person should be allowed to be this fucking adorable), and she very quickly shoved his own gift from her into his hands, encouraging him with new vigour to open it. They matched, and Sylvain’s heart honestly clenched at how her eyes had rounded, with her babbling about _what are the chances!_

Bernadetta says, grabbing them both with care, “What are they doing here?”

With a shrug, Sylvain tells her, “I like having them on display.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her ears redden first, and then the flush spreads to the rest of her face. Sylvain grins.

She puts a bergamot tea bag into the fox mug, and Albinean berry blend into the bear one, tipping the appropriate amounts of sugar into both (two teaspoons for Sylvain, and three for her). 

“Do you want a snack?” she asks him over her shoulder.

Sylvain reads the time on the microwave. 4:20. Blaze it.

He shakes his head. Snacking might disrupt whatever sleep he might still get. “I’m okay.”

“Alright!” She goes back to humming, and Sylvain watches on as the kettle finishes boiling and she concentrates deeply on making sure she doesn’t accidentally spill any of the hot water.

So, so, _so_ in love.

Sylvain ends up helping Bernadetta grab the painkillers, because they’re in another cupboard on a higher shelf Bernadetta cannot reach unless Sylvain lifts her, which he does. Once everything is ready, they make their way back to his room, shutting the door behind them once the lights are off again. The mugs of tea are set aside on the desk for a moment as Sylvain reaches for his laptop and boots it up. Bernadetta stands on the mattress to turn some fairy lights on that Sylvain got from Hilda for Secret Santa last year, along with a shirt that says _HIMBO_ across the chest that’s folded in his closet.

They have a routine for nights in bed watching movies, and Bernadetta also grabs an ample amount of pillows to place the laptop on. Once Sylvain has logged in and searches for the movie, Bernadetta slides off the bed again. Sylvain takes his painkillers and downs them with a slightly too hot gulp of his tea.

“Is it okay if I change into something lighter? I’m sorta warm.”

He looks up to smile at her. “Of course, sweetheart. Remember which drawer is yours?”

“Mhm!” Bernadetta jiggles said drawer open and takes out a short-sleeved shirt. “Um.”

Sylvain assures her, eyes glued to the laptop screen for good measure, “I won’t look if you don’t want me to.”

“N-No! No, it’s okay, you can—you can look! I mean—not that I’m undressing for you to look or, uh, or anything, I just—!”

“Berna,” he soothes. She catches his eye in between her fingers where they spread across her face, embarrassed. “Slow down. I’m not assuming anything, I promise.”

_You help me feel safe, I help you._

She nods and then puffs out a breath. “I… I am warm. I just wasn’t sure which shirt would match my pants. But then I thought maybe I could instead switch my pants out for shorts, or wear shorts _and_ a short-sleeved shirt.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, as she often does when she overthinks. “Is… Would the short-short combo be okay…? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable!”

Sweet Sothis. She’s everything and more.

His laugh isn’t mocking, and he quickly assures her of that before saying, “You could never make me feel uncomfortable with what you wear. It’s whatever suits you best. But, if you would like my opinion, I do think you look super cute in your short Winnie the Pooh set.”

“Okay!” Her voice is slightly higher pitched. “Okay! Winnie the Pooh! Okay!”

He grins stupidly, and his heart does an even stupider stutter in his chest when she takes her hoodie off and reveals the expanse of her back. She has a lot of beauty marks there, a few freckles, too. Among her back acne, there are three scars she hasn’t explained (not that he's asked or expects something about), but he understands. He snaps his head back to the laptop. Again with the blushing virgin behaviour!

Once Bernadetta folds her clothes and tucks them into the drawer, she climbs back onto the bed next to Sylvain. He looks over at her once she’s settled, and sees that she has, in fact, changed into her Winnie the Pooh set. She’s intrigued by her hands in her lap.

His gaze is endeared. “Cute,” he reiterates, and Bernadetta groans, hiding her face in her hands again while Sylvain laughs.

The laptop gets placed on the mound of cushions once _Anastasia_ is loaded up, and he helps reorganise the covers over them. He opens his arms up for Bernadetta, silently offering cuddles, and when she shuffles close enough he pulls her onto his lap, smiling goofily into her hair when she squeals.

“Comfy?” he murmurs into her ear.

Bernadetta nods. “Yes. Yeah. Very. Um. You?”

He kisses the shell of her ear, and she visibly melts at the affection, sitting back against his chest. “Very.”

She rests her hands on top of his and huffs.

They’ve both seen this movie together countless times, so there’s no pressure to focus on what’s going on. Sylvain is thankful for it, and he supposes that’s an advantage of dating someone who also has ADHD, because his concentration isn’t always there, especially not after a night like this. He spends a part of the movie zoning in and out, drawn back in by Bernadetta’s absent thumbing of his knuckles every now and then. He tries hard not to think about Miklan, and even though he fails, he does feel safer with Bernadetta here with him. She must feel his heartbeat pick up at some point, because she tips her head back to look up at him.

“You okay? Heart’s a little fast…”

His smile is small. “Just thinking,” he supplies.

“Bad thinking?” Bernadetta doesn’t look away.

“Mm…”

She nods. “You wanna stop the movie and talk?”

“No, no. It’s okay, I promise. You… You help by just being here…”

It flusters them both, but to his surprise Bernadetta keeps eye contact despite it, which she does rarely anyway. “I’m glad… Kiss?”

He slumps with his smile, this time a little wider. He kisses her softly, and she kisses back.

“You okay with the movie still going?”

He nods, and they both look back at the screen. Their hands lock together like it’s instinct.

The next time the silence is broken is when Bernadetta starts to quietly sing along to the lyrics they both know all too well. Sylvain rests his chin on her head, fond and warm. He can feel her happy stimming with her fingers, tapping his hands rhythmically as she sings, and _fuck,_ he loves her.

_“Someone holds me safe and wa—”_

Sylvain says, “Move in with me.”

Bernadetta stops singing, and in turn Sylvain stops breathing.

The movie carries on playing without them paying attention, and then Bernadetta twists slightly to look at Sylvain. Her eyes are rounded with surprise, and her mouth slightly agape.

“You—”

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

Her face falls. It—It… falls…?

“Oh.”

He rushes out, “Un—Unless—” The hope in his voice is near-pathetic, he’s sure. “Would you like to? Move in with me, I mean.”

Bernadetta swallows. “If. If you want me here…”

If Sylvain wants her here.

If Sylvain wants to wake up every morning with her next to him, knowing she’ll go to bed with him the same way, too. If Sylvain wants to cook breakfast with her and drink their gone-cold tea because they’ve gotten too distracted with the newspaper’s wordsearch, then the sudoku, and then the birds out on the balcony. If Sylvain wants to go grocery shopping with her, helping her get something off a high shelf. If Sylvain wants to do chores with her and clean the apartment together with music playing over the speakers. If Sylvain wants to nap with her sometimes after submitting a tedious essay. If Sylvain wants her to be here when he invites Felix or Dimitri over. If Sylvain wants her to bake with him on a whim because he saw something really good looking on TV when channel-surfing. If Sylvain wants to dance in the kitchen with her to one of their songs in between washing the dishes even though they have a dishwasher. If Sylvain wants to do his bedtime routine with her each evening, and shower together or sometimes alone while she stands at the sink brushing her teeth. If Sylvain wants to come into their shared bedroom where her things are, where her clothes are, where her plushies are lined up along the wall the bed is next to. If Sylvain wants to go to sleep smiling and feeling safe, even when Miklan lurks behind his closed eyes sometimes.

“More than anything,” is all he can really think to say without being disgustingly sappy and listing all those scenarios he’s imagined himself in with her on nights she’s in her own room at her shared apartment with Hubert. Hell, he’s yearned for it more and more each time he’s had to kiss her goodbye at her door or at his before they go their separate ways. “Please.”

A smile spreads on Bernadetta’s face, and her eyes are glassy. “Are you—Are you sure? Bernie can be annoying to live with, and—”

“I’m positive. I’m annoying to live with, too. Just ask Felix or Dimitri.” Goddess, do they have stories, hopefully none of which are too bad to scare Bernadetta away. “Just. Don’t move in because you think I’m vulnerable right now. I mean, I _am,_ but—I didn’t mean to ask that. I don’t even know where it came from.”

“No!” She sits closer to him, if that’s at all possible. “No, I… I really, really want to…”

He blows out a breath. “Okay. Okay, we’re… we’re gonna live together. Here?” Bernadetta nods. “Okay. Here. We’re gonna live together here. Holy shit—” He laughs, unable to do much else.

Then he kisses her, deep and promising.

“Wait,” she says when she pulls back, and Sylvain immediately holds back. “Um. If… If that’s not what you were going to say… Can I ask what you did want to…? Never mind, that’s silly, I—”

Is he moving too fast? He doesn’t know. This is the first real relationship he’s had in all his years that didn’t end after an unexpected second date and few decent orgasms. Hell, he doesn’t care, they’ve never been the most regular couple, in pace or otherwise.

So, Sylvain confesses, “I love you.”

Once again, Bernadetta stops. Her mouth hangs open, and this time it looks as though she’s truly frozen.

Naturally, panic takes over.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says almost instantly when silence follows. “I’m so, so, sorry, this is—this is too much, I—”

Arms tight around him again. Sylvain shuts up.

“I love you, too,” Bernadetta confesses back, barely audible but—

He blinks, surprised. _Genuinely_ surprised. “You—You do?”

Bernadetta nods slowly. “A-A lot… I… I really love you, Sylvain.”

“Oh.” He sits back against the headboard, feeling slightly faint. “You… You lo—Oh, man. You.”

“I love you,” Bernadetta repeats, breathless, as though in disbelief, though not the same kind that Sylvain deflates with. “I love you, Sylvain, I do, I love you!” Now she’s giddy with it, and he’s not too far from the same position himself.

He’s just… processing the reality that is actually being loved back.

Do _not_ cry.

Someone sniffles. He’s surprised to find it’s not him.

Okay, crying might be allowed.

“I love you, too, Berna,” he sniffs and laughs, holding her tight. “So much.”

It somehow doesn’t feel silly to repeat those same three words over and over to each other, especially when this sort of unfiltered happiness looks so good on the both of them. Love, love, love, love.

He gets to say it once more before they both drift into sleep.

It’s two in the afternoon and Tuesday still when he wakes up. Bernadetta’s already awake herself, on her phone. He hums and pulls her closer and kisses her neck lazily.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmurs.

Already smiling, Bernadetta says, “Good morning. I love you!” and it sounds as though she’s been bursting to say it since rousing from sleep.

Sylvain’s heart bursts in his chest, quickly recalling their exchange in the early hours of the morning. He hides his face in the crook of her neck, but his smile, he is sure, goes unmissed, if not against her shirt then in his voice. “I love you, too…”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twt!](https://twitter.com/feIIstars)


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